Ynyshafhn
by Ratzinger
Summary: Word of the killings by Caerfyrddin and Ynyshafhn reaches him via hearsay. Years pass.


**Ynyshafhn**

Wind chimes in the snowy branches above, attending to the dash of the rider on her steed. They're being invited into a realm that waits for awakening under its wild, forbidding hide of frozen earth. It's as if they were riding on a sleeping giant's back.

Heat that exudes from the animal's beautiful neck warms her and nurtures the excitement over her sudden, wilful decision to break away from her entourage. Doubtless, they're already trailing some way behind, bound to catch up with her eventually. But not yet. Cold air stings in her throat. It has needled her cheeks into a furious blush that contrasts so against the pale of winter in which every beat of the hooves against petrified land carries her further off from the Mage's Way.

She can imagine their outrage. How very thoughtless of her! Is she not afraid to get lost, to fall and break her precious bones? Hurry, tuck in your toes, hide your nose, or the hares of Tintagel will have you for dinner, sweet little rose. She briefly loses concentration in laughter and scratches her knee in the rose hep bushes. No, there is no fear in her. Not here, and not today while she can still enjoy the pretence of not being who she is. If anything, she is only afraid of this flight and its kind being as close as she will ever get to freedom under the skies where she was born.

There's the crooked willow! It hunches over a shallow riverbed that is now almost entirely lost to snow. No matter, because she knows it to be almost always dry enough to cross; lest the end of summer has brought its heavy downpours. Wind has had fun here, it seems. She is forced to bring her mare to an abrupt halt as the snow deepens without warning; it has been piled into an insurmountable heap against the opposing riverbank. The grove there has effectively barricaded itself in. And it's quite a pretty sight. She straightens on the horse's back. Not a soul around. All so silent. The forest thickens here. It looks a little less intimidating than she remembers given that light makes its way through more easily, yet not once before has she crossed over to the other side where trees loom close by each other.

Guiding her horse along the shoreline, she searches for a familiar place. Her mare neighs restlessly, not understanding her rider's sudden hesitancy. She'd gallop to land's end with her, the lively and curious soul! Although beyond there they shall never venture; where land ends, sea begins, and deep waters bring only death.

It is different here now, come winter. Nonetheless an echo of sadness persists. _Maybe I felt like this when I first came here._ There are no prints to be seen in the snow, which is as eerie as it is eye-catching. Something hides here, beyond the treeline. She should not disturb it. As she well knows, some sadness does not take well to being reminded of its own presence.

Ah, there!

The wind-brushed tip of the tallest stone is pointed out to her by a robin–a single dot of red within the land's pristine mantle. Easing herself off her steed, she approaches the three white lumps that would have otherwise blended in with the landscape. They must be it, surely? Tall stones with markings on them, cracked and falling over each other as if someone had come and attempted to kick them down. She used to hide herself between them once.

 _Druids conceal their treasures behind a drove of various landmarks. Runic stones, wicker figures, sweetmoss treats on trees, bones, you name it. They're meant to lead you astray, you see, and in wilderness, my young lady, that is quite enough. Quite enough, indeed._

 _Treasures? What treasures, father Ifan?_

 _Well, their children of course._

They call the road south Mage's Way? But mages did not build roads, they leave little to no trace of their presence on the land. Whoever called it so must have done so to salute, to warn, or to commemorate, perhaps. People name what they care about and someone at some time had cared a great deal about the land around here. Tightening her hood, she lets her mind drift.

The thrill of the ride is slowly waning.

With an almost audible plop, like an apple from a tree, the robin lands in front of her. It shakes off the falling snow. A watchful little thing and as it seems, not in the least afraid. How curious! Delighted, she stretches out her hand and after a brief hesitation the bird does hop onto her palm. It is looking at her closely; so closely in fact that she wouldn't be surprised if it spoke in human next. She has had a good relationship with animals since childhood, especially with birds, but in the middle of the silence and emptiness that surrounds her here, the presence of this one makes her wonder. It is unlike small birds to wander away from their flock in winter.

'You are much like me, aren't you?'

'Your highness!' Just like that her brief respite finds its end.

It was only a matter of time after all, and while there _is_ comfort in knowing that someone will always come for her, it is also unbelievably frustrating. The bird too notices the new arrival and makes its way to him. Drawing a circle around the lord and his lackeys it attempts, much to Catrina's amusement, to peck at him in the head before darting back to wherever it had come from.

The poor man's nose is as red from cold as hers must be, yet he still came personally. 'If you wanted to ride ahead, you could have just given the word.'

He yanks at the reins harshly. His bay horse dislikes something.

The Earl has always reminded her of a big grey wolf. He culls the herds of the sick and the unwanted, and ensures the rest stay in line. A 'noble' nurse of the woodlands whose paw prints follow in the shuffling tracks of a great serpent's tail.

'That was not too wise, your grace. Even as close to home as we are.'

Unlike so many others, he has been around for as long as she can remember. He is a man of duty above all, and she is being a little unkind. This time he has been put in her keeper's role–one that must test his patience on some level for he has no family of his own. And true to his word, the Earl has spent as much time on hammering out the details of the takeover of her mother's ancestral lands as he has on keeping a wary eye on her–who she talks to, what the servants tell her, how the remains of Catia's extended family treat her. What could have endangered her, she honestly cannot say, but their paranoia has recently come to defy even her wildest assumptions. In the very least, the cloak and dagger of her travel has been fun in its silliness.

It has made her tired of his presence, however, and she desperately hopes the feeling's mutual so that she does not have to feel too bad. After all, she understands well enough that the only real reason for her presence was to soften Elisedd's–her uncle's–heart in the face of his only son's premature demise. Illness, they say. A curse, says Elisedd, a curse upon their entire family. It's hard to argue. And neither her father nor the Earl have what it takes to keep a grieving father–and brother, she reminds herself for a thousandth time–from the edge of wrath. It is not the first time they have reasoned thusly. She is not that naïve anymore. Yet when given a chance to see for herself, to know more, to feel _close_ to mother again–well, she would take it in a heartbeat. Like the lonely, lost fool that she is.

'Oh, I know,' she sighs, managing a smile. 'I just could not help myself.'

The Earl frowns in disapproval. He carries it well.

Mercia can look so awfully vexed over so many fairly obvious things. It is not entirely his fault, of course. At times, Catia is unsure of great many things around her, including the extent to which she can trust the things she remembers to be true. People tell so many tales–who can follow them all, really? Still, she maintains the benefit of being often overlooked. That gives her the time and space to adjust, whereas people's eyes are glued on the Earl at all times. Few can meet the king, much less understand him, and so they deal with him instead. Hands that are always needling away rarely notice before the handkerchief starts to darken; it must be much the same with a man who must be so many different things to so many different people.

'You could have hurt yourself. Men could have lost you, not gotten there in time–'

'That is not true,' she interrupts him. 'You never lose track of me; the most I can do is to make you lose sight of me every once in a while.'

'Your grace, please, you know this is folly.'

'Besides, I am not hurt, am I? I know these woods well.'

He smiles grimly. 'Of course'.

He is one of her father's oldest allies; his only true friend, she thinks. Sometimes her father fails to see it, and that saddens her. Although, therefore Catia also guesses that it is unlikely that the Earl will bring up this afternoon in conversation with the king. Out of friendship, and out of that keen sense of caution he tries to remind her of. So she hopes at least, for all is well with her.

'This place–do you remember it, my lord? It was summer's end. You had just returned from the north and I had learned to control Myrin well enough to ride on my own,' she changes tact. 'We made camp nearby.'

His impression behind the thick bear fur is softening ever so slightly even as his knuckles knead the pommel of his sword in obvious hurry. He remembers. How quaint that men like him should enjoy leading a life of self-denial. Even when presented with something as lovely and fleeting as a good memory they are ever impatient to return to games where out-suffering the other means winning.

'I recall that your highness ventured into these waters in search of pearls–'

'–and golden dragonflies who fulfil wishes. Yes! You do remember!' she exclaims, managing to draw a genuine smile from the knight. He steps closer, kicking off snow from one of the fallen border-stones Catia is sitting on.

'It was a good day. A good hunt! Clarendon spotted a boar for us; a magnificent beast!'

'Father was in a good mood.'

'That he was.'

'Did you hunt in this part of the wood?' she asks, nodding towards the grim guardians on the other side.

'Once, yes, we did,' he follows her gaze. 'But not on that occasion.'

'However, correct me if I am mistaken, your grace, but did you yourself not sit down amidst the cat-tails right over there,' he points to where she has never ventured.

 _Molluscs. Scratched, bloody knees and a wet dress. Tears. Father's firm hands._

That was right, wasn't it? She had fallen in. Water had engulfed her, if only for a moment, and she had disappeared from her nan's line of sight.

'In order to gather river delicacies for your royal supper, no doubt.'

She shivers involuntarily–the very thought of her toes sinking into the murky river mud with its numerous critters, worms, and other suchlike sickens her. The splash of darkness hitting her eyes, the burning sensation in her nose.

'With wish fulfilment in mind, one might say it was a plunge in good faith.'

One might say the Earl has plunged into untested waters of humour.

'Yes, that– that was not too wise of me, was it?'

'You were a child. You had more important matters on your mind.' He is trying to make light of the annoyance she must have caused, then and today.

Might as well, for she is too bothered to do the same. Having no further desire to carry on with the conversation, she calls for her horse, ready to depart.

'Did you ever find any, your grace? Pearls or dragonflies?' he inquires on their way back to the main road. It's a nice gesture, easing her mind back into the less puzzling aspects of that day by the riverside.

'I did not. I found a small bracelet, though. Whoever lost it must have tried to look for it. It was delicate with something engraved on it even.'

'A name?'

'Could have been, yes.'

'Do you still have it?'

'Sadly not.' It had gone missing despite of her thinking for certain that she had put it away safely. 'I suppose it wished to remain hidden.'


End file.
